Last week, I wrote a post on my substack, CAN I ASK YOU A PERSONAL QUESTION, with a list of posthumous requests in the event of my untimely passing. At my memorial, I’m leaving nothing to chance, especially the speeches, as I don’t trust any of the people in my family to craft the kind of send-off that would allow my soul to rest in peace. I worry that I'll have notes, disagree, or simply feel compelled to rise from the dead in order to lighten the mood and break the tension. That is why I’ve decided to leave scripts.
This one is for Sid.
Sid: Hello everyone. I’m Jenny’s eldest son, Sid. Many of you may not have seen my face before because my mother, a paranoid psychopath, believed that everyone was a molestor. But good news: I haven’t been molested, so, you know, things are going okay. Well, not totally okay because my mom is dead, but, like, they could be worse. My mom could be dead, and I could also be molested.
Jenny. What is there to say about my mom, Jenny? Well, she was weird. And funny, I guess. But in an embarrassing way. If she hadn't been your mom, you might think, "Oh, Sid's mom is cool." But she wasn’t cool. She didn’t work at the Apple Store or have a the Fishstick skin in Fortnite or anything like that. She just liked attention and would do pretty much anything for a laugh.
I know she was a writer, but a good portion of her job seemed to consist of her walking around our neighborhood, eating salads with her hands, and talking to her phone. If she happened to spot me through the window at my school while passing by, she would begin jumping up and down, performing a dance called the Roger Rabbit. It was mortifying.
She wore shirts with inappropriate slogans about legalizing weed, banning chocolate milk, and others that claimed she’d aid and abet abortions. She rarely brushed her hair; she never packed a change of clothes for the park; she never remembered to fill my water bottle; and I believe she passed away without knowing my exact shoe size. She couldn’t make a bed to save her life, nor could she sew a button. She had no idea how to operate our laundry machine, dishwasher, or remote control in our TV room, but she could make a mean avocado toast on gluten-free bread with my favorite, Jennifer Fisher Salt.
She forced both my brother and me to speak German, even though she’s not German and only learned the language because of an ex-boyfriend. Awkward. One time, she even made us all have lunch with him and his mother in Berlin. My brother threw up Tikka Masala all over himself, and we got to leave early. Thank god. But this is the kind of shit I dealt with.
I was sort of dreading doing this whole eulogy thing, but when I heard that we were having her “Celebration of Life” on a Saturday, I’m not gonna lie. I was excited because it meant I would miss my weekend German classes.
Danke sehr, mama!